Killing Season Poem by Jason Jackson

The murky, muddy black pools are still & quiet,
the land is silent & awaits, untilled.
Dreams are too personal to discuss,
the dreams that may never be fulfilled

Behold a light, a beacon, a shower,
a heart string that has yet to be tugged,
hope upon hope, hour after hour
the future hides it's utter bleakness.

And soon, too soon we depart
without ever knowing the real reason
we spend our last days, roaming the ethereal streets
in search of the killing season